And everyone crowds around me, now, too, so in that moment, like so many moments with you, I can feel perfect, too.
LATE APRIL
TENTH GRADE
I let go of Max’s hand, and open the Velcro closure of the habitat, folding the mesh panel back and pressing it onto its hooks.
“These, over here?” I say. “The Jezebels? Predators can’t eat them because of their toxins. Their bright colors tell you that. Even before they hatch, you can tell from the neon yellow of their chrysalis.”
“Cool,” Max says. “And these?”
“Glasswings are the opposite, which makes them more susceptible. But they can store temporary toxins from the plants they eat. Plus, their transparency protects them.”
“Opposite of humans,” Max says.
I’m about to point out more nerdy butterfly facts, or try to urge a few of the butterflies out of the habitat, but I notice two Glasswings coupled and going at it unceremoniously in the corner. They look like one butterfly with eight wings.
Max notices, too.
“Get a room, huh?” he says, laughing. He sits back, watching them for a minute; then, as if they’ve given him the idea, he wraps his arms around me, and pulls me down, lowering me onto my carpet. He breathes into my hair like he’s trying to inhale me. “We could do like them, if you want to.”
“Max…” I whisper in warning, though to him or me lately I’m never really sure. “What happened to your chi thing?”
“I changed my mind,” he says. “Just a little more?”
“Okay, but just a little.” And then his tongue is meeting mine, and his hands are under my shirt, then under my bra, his fingers finding my nipples, sending my thoughts spinning, and me and this room careening into outer space.
LATE APRIL
TENTH GRADE
The front door closes, and my eyes snap open, confused.
The light has grown dim, slipping in weakly through the translucent shades of my window. We’ve fallen asleep on the floor, limbs wrapped together, my head on Max’s chest. I untangle myself, and sit up, pulling my T-shirt back down. I’m still fully clothed, but Mom would kill me. Or Nana, if she happens to be here. Or Mom might call Dad, but if he wants to parent me, he’s just going to have to come home.
“Max, get up.” I go to shake him, but his eyes are wide open.
“I am up, goofball. That’s why you’re up. I was talking to you.”
“You were? I think my mom came home. How long was I asleep?” Max rolls on his side, props up on an elbow, and looks at me. He seems like he’s been awake for a while.
Was he watching me the whole time?
“Not long.” He shrugs. “And, yeah, someone came in.”
“What were you doing?”
“Nothing. Resting. Thinking.”
“About what?” I search for my cell phone—My bed? My desk?—I can’t seem to gauge what time it is.
“California.”
“Wait, what? How come?” I ask, retrieving it from my night table. It’s already 6:20. I have no texts or messages from Mom. I feel groggy, drugged. When I move back toward Max, I realize the cotton of my underwear is damp.
“Because I’m going. And I needed to tell you.”
“You are?” Panic rises in my chest.
“Yes.”
“When?” Tears form because I’m so tired and out of it, I don’t have the chance to brace myself.
“Soon as I graduate. You should come.”
I sit on the edge of my bed, and try to collect myself, and bring my room into crisp focus. Desk. Closet. Butterfly habitat. In the distance, the sound of water running. Another door opening and closing. The pad of my mother’s feet—only hers, no other footsteps, no conversation—moving through the house.
Will she come down the hall and check on me?
Does she even know I exist?
“But why?”
“Because I want to. Because I can. Because I hate it here and there’s nothing here for me, other than you.” My eyes dart to him. Did I know this? Did I have any clue Max was unhappy? “Because it’s always warm there. No winter. No sleet. No snow.”
“But—”
“But nothing, Jailbait. I’m going. So, come with me. Please. I want you to. I bet they have all sorts of butterflies there.”
LATE FALL
NINTH GRADE
“Come on over here, JL. You can sit next to me,” Ethan calls to me as soon as I reach the bottom of the stairs. He pats the seat of the big orange armchair where he’s already sitting, a grease-smeared paper plate in his lap. His sneakered feet are up on the ottoman, where I could, otherwise, sit.
My heart skips a beat. The rest of the couch and chairs are taken, but he could move his feet and I wouldn’t have to be there, squished right next to him.
I should tell him to move them. I should choose not to sit that close to him.
It’s a Saturday, late afternoon, and I’ve walked here, as usual, despite the storm outside. The skies opened up right as I reached your front door. My hair is wet and the basement air is cold on my damp skin. Goose bumps rise up and I shiver.
I could go upstairs and get a towel. You’re up there, still showering. You came home from the soccer fields covered in mud.
Party at my house, you had texted. If you get there first, save me a slice. E won’t.
Now the rich, sweet and sour smell of dough and sauce and garlic hit my nose, and remind me, so I veer toward the bar instead. This is willpower, since my window of opportunity is limited. Anyway, I’m not comfortable wading past all of Ethan’s friends to get to him.
Behind the bar, I slide two slices out of the open box and onto plates, and set those off to the side.
“Hurry up, Markham!” your brother calls, twisting to look where I’ve gone. “Oh!” he says, realizing. “While you’re there, bring me another one.” He holds up his empty plate, and I slide a third slice onto a fresh one, my eyes shifting to the stairs because, for a second, I think I hear you coming. But now I have a legitimate reason. I’m just delivering his food because he asked me to.
I make my way across the room, my heart beating so hard it’s ridiculous. I can’t help it, and, trust me, I want to. This has been going on for months, this thing where I can’t wait to see Ethan, where I read into everything, hoping. Even when I know there’s no way he’s interested.
Except, I feel like he is. I’ve noticed him watching me lately, calling me over when I walk in a room. Being over-friendly and squeezing my shoulders, or bumping my arm. Last week, he offered me a ride home, when I’ve been walking to and from your house alone for the past four years.
“I’ll take you; it’s raining,” he said, though it was barely sprinkling. He just got his license, I told myself. He wants an excuse to drive.
“Markham,” he demands, making me realize I’ve stopped halfway there. “Quick, you have to see this, before he’s done.”
I nod, my cheeks burning as I weave through his friends who have spilled off the couch and onto the floor. A girl I recognize from chorus is perched on the lap of a boy from tennis team.